for yee bee;
    On everich breaste yn gorie letteres scarre,
    Whatt sprytes you have, & howe those sprytes maie dree. 
    And gyf yee gette awaie to Denmarkes shore,
  Eftesoones we will retourne, & vanquished bee ne moere. 985

    The battelle loste, a battelle was yndede;
    Note queedes hemselfes culde stonde so harde a fraie;
    Oure verie armoure, & oure heaulmes dyd blede,
    The Dacyannes, sprytes, lyche dewe drops, fledde awaie. 
    Ytte was an AElla dyd commaunde the daie; 990
    Ynn spyte of foemanne, I moste saie hys myghte;
    Botte wee ynn hynd-lettes blodde the loss wylle paie,
    Brynnynge, thatte we knowe howe to wynne yn fyghte;
    Wee wylle, lyke wylfes enloosed from chaynes, destroie;—­
    Oure armoures—­wynter nyghte shotte oute the daie of joie. 995

    Whene swefte-fote tyme doe rolle the daie alonge,
    Somme hamlette scalle onto oure fhuyrie brende;
    Brastynge alyche a rocke, or mountayne stronge,
    The talle chyrche-spyre upon the grene shalle bende;
    Wee wylle the walles, & auntyante tourrettes rende, 1000
    Pete everych tree whych goldyn fruyte doe beere,
    Downe to the goddes the ownerrs dhereof sende,
  Besprengynge alle abrode sadde warre & bloddie weere. 
    Botte fyrste to yynder oke-tree wee wylle flie;
  And thence wylle yssue owte onne all yatte commeth bie. 1005

  ANODHER PARTE OF THE WOODE.

  CELMONDE, BIRTHA.

  BIRTHA.

    Thys merkness doe affraie mie wommanns breaste. 
    Howe sable ys the spreddynge skie arrayde! 
    Hailie the bordeleire, who lyves to reste,
    Ne ys att nyghtys flemynge hue dysmayde;
    The starres doe scantillie[110] the sable brayde; 1010
    Wyde ys the sylver lemes of comforte wove;
    Speke, Celmonde, does ytte make thee notte afrayde?

  CELMONDE.

    Merker the nyghte, the fitter tyde for love.

  BIRTHA.

    Saiest thou for love? ah! love is far awaie. 
  Faygne would I see once moe the roddie lemes of daie. 1015

  CELMONDE.

    Love maie bee nie, woulde Birtha calle ytte here.

  BIRTHA.

    How, Celmonde, dothe thou mene?

  CELMONDE.

      Thys Celmonde menes. 
    No leme, no eyne, ne mortalle manne appere,
    Ne lyghte, an acte of love for to bewreene;
    Nete in thys forreste, botte thys tore[111], dothe sheene, 1020
    The whych, potte oute, do leave the whole yn nyghte;
    See! howe the brauncynge trees doe here entwyne,
    Makeynge thys bower so pleasynge to the syghte;
    Thys was for love fyrste made, & heere ytt stondes,
  Thatte hereynne lovers maie enlyncke yn true loves bondes. 1025